


A Lesser Eden

by ObliObla



Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [7]
Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fuckruary 2020 (Lucifer TV), Hell, Post-Season/Series 04, Shower Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:41:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22611967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: When Chloe and Lucifer first come together, the stink of Hell is still upon him, and she nearly chokes on the bitterness. But she’ll take any measure of gall to feel his heart beating under her palm. To taste the brimstone on his tongue and know this isn’t any kind of dream.It’s far from perfect, but it’s all she wants.
Relationships: Chloe Decker/Lucifer Morningstar
Series: Obli's Fuckruary 2020 [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1619344
Comments: 32
Kudos: 215





	A Lesser Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Day 7! Prompt: Shower/Bukkake (kind of)
> 
> Thanks a thousand to [TheWillowBends](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWillowBends/pseuds/TheWillowBends) for all her beta help!

When Chloe and Lucifer first come together, the stink of Hell is still upon him, and she nearly chokes on the bitterness. But she’ll take any measure of gall to feel his heart beating under her palm. To taste the brimstone on his tongue and know this isn’t any kind of dream. It’s far from perfect, but it’s all she wants, and he stumbles back as if she’s sapped his strength—as if she’s cut his hair, as if she’s torn into his soft places, as if she looked back and saw him turn to salt and shadow and ash.

She had started to believe he was never coming back.

Her lack of faith is acrid in her mouth, but he soothes her aches even as she realizes there is blood on her hands. It’s nothing metaphorical—he groans into their inelegant kiss as his vest pinches at the wounds hidden beneath.

She pulls away, guiding him to sit on the edge of her bed, to smear the sheets with grime and unsaid promises neither wanted to break. She parts the leather and stares at the lacerations painting his chest and stomach. “What happened?”

“Hell happened,” he grunts, and there is no kindness to it.

It’s somehow fitting that his vest and shirt come off almost incidentally—a disrobing as casual as it has ever been with him. Her shirt is covered with blood as well, and she pulls that off too, taking him by the hand and leading him to the bathroom. The steady sound of the shower dispels the silence, and she’s glad for it, is glad for any distraction from all the questions she has. She senses this isn’t the time for that, though it will come. She has no interest in staying in the dark.

He stands at the entrance to her shower and looks back at her before shucking his pants, a strange hesitation on his face, though not in his actions. When she divests herself of her sleep pants, she expects a leer, a salacious comment, maybe even quiet embarrassment. Instead, he is measured in his response, looking away considerately, and it’s all so _wrong._

But when he steps into the shower and the water sluices blood down to stain white porcelain, she’s reminded that _everything_ is wrong. At least he’s here, for however long he can stay. He didn’t tell, and she didn’t ask. She isn’t sure she wants to know yet. Her shower isn’t particularly large, and not only does he have to duck his head to rinse the ash from his hair, she can’t help but rub her hip against his thigh trying to join him, pulling the door closed after her.

He doesn’t say anything—and this, too, is strange—but she can hear his sharp intake of breath at the contact. It comforts her, makes him less of a stranger in her partner’s skin. What she wouldn’t give for an eye roll worthy comment about ‘keeping things up’ right now.

He assents to let her help him with his wounds, by which she means he doesn’t quite pull away when she wets a washcloth to carefully scrub off the worst of it. He doesn’t hiss, though his jaw tightens when she catches against an especially painful spot, and there’s a strange, pounding emptiness in her mind. _He’s here. He’s here. He’s here._ But this is not him; this is not _them._

The cuts turn out to be shallower than she expected once the filth and dried blood have been washed away; they’re no longer bleeding and are pink and raw with the early stages of healing. He heals quickly, she remembers suddenly. Back when she knew nothing of who he was, it was one of the first things she had intentionally ignored. There are so many things she ignored. Too many, maybe. She hands him shampoo, and he washes his hair. She hands him body wash and a loofah, and he scrubs at the caked-on ash and nastier things that circle the drain in sickly yellows and strange greens and thick, oily blacks. She is torn between wanting to help and wanting to leave him to whatever he’s washing off that’s clearly far worse than dirt. But she does neither, merely stands at the back of the shower, shivering from the cool air that wafts over the door every few moments, and sees what Hell has made of him.

He’s leaner than he was, and though he has no scars—she suspects he’s incapable of any besides the ones that marked the removal of his wings—there’s a weariness in how he holds himself that makes her eyes burn with something worse than sulfur. He seems uncomfortable having his back fully turned on her, glancing over his shoulder reflexively but never quite making eye contact. In late, lonely nights and frustrated mornings when she’s imagined him in her shower, he was looking at her, facing her, pressing her into the tiles with his hand working between her legs, not… this.

The water sloshing around the tub turns a particularly unpleasant shade of brown before finally running clear just before the hot water heater gives up entirely, and they are abruptly drenched in freezing water. They emerge onto the mat, sputtering and dripping. They dry themselves off quickly, and Chloe wonders if she should put her clothes back on. 

There _had_ been passion, hadn’t there? Barely half an hour ago, ash and all. But now, even though they are clean and naked, there is only uncertainty. She stares into the foggy mirror, watching the indistinct outlines of their bodies. It’s easier to look at him through the mirror than to see how he won’t look at her. When he was gone, she read everything she could find about him—about his _world_ —even if she knew most of it was wrong, hoping somewhere in the words she might find him again. 

A garden, a man, a woman. A fruit, a snake, a fall.

_I heard your voice in the garden, and I was afraid, because I was naked._

_Is_ this fear? Is he afraid of her, or of himself? And is _she_ afraid too? Is that why she hasn’t asked any of the questions burning in her mind? Is she scared that if she tastes of the fruit her eyes will be opened and she will know things she never wanted to know? That she won’t ever be able to go back? Ignorance has always been so much easier. Lucifer had just been her weird partner, and she’d needed the eggs. But it’s impossible to ignore the divinity in his unblemished skin. It’s impossible to ignore Hell in the wounds on his abdomen, in the lingering scent of sulfur, in the tension in his shoulders as he glances down at his strangely styled pants, bundled on the ground between them.

_The serpent beguiled me, and I did eat._

She can still taste his lips, can still feel his heartbeat against her palm. She can feel the heat of his blood on her hands. And she makes her choice.

A garden, a man, a woman. A fruit, a snake, a fall.

The leather is rough under her feet when she shuffles past his trousers, kicking them under the counter with all her reservations. He watches the motion with dark, expressionless eyes but doesn’t comment. He’s leaning ever so slightly against the counter, and she steps in front of him, almost boxing him in. He stares at a spot over her shoulder as if he’s afraid to look at her nakedness. But she is not afraid. Not of him, at least. She pushes down every voice in her head that wonders how long he can stay, wonders what happened while he was gone, wonders if she’s making a mistake to even try. 

Her hand lands on his shoulder, and his entire body tenses. She meets his gaze. He’s not blinking; he may not even be breathing. He’s slouched almost picturesquely in her small, mildly dingy bathroom, like some kind of old Greek marble; but that’s never been what she wants. Her fingertips trail up to the curve of his neck, skimming his throat, and his hand snaps up, catching her around the wrist.

_Don’t. Please._

Her pulse thrums under his grip, and instead of pulling away, she pushes into the contact. He blinks, finally, but the tension doesn’t shatter. _“Chloe,”_ he says pointedly. Not detective, not darling. _Chloe._ His voice is a low rumble that accelerates her heart rate, and she steps even closer. She waits for him to push her away, to turn, to run, to flee as he did so many times before. But he doesn’t move at all, only stands, holding her wrist; and now his eyes _are_ on her.

His gaze trails from her face to her breasts to the bullet hanging between them, and she finally sees the hunger that she expected, that she desires more than anything. The growing heat between her legs pulses, and she reaches up with her free hand to press her open palm against his chest. She freezes, waiting for him to grab this hand as well, to finally push her away—to do the smart thing and stop whatever this is before they both regret it.

But when have either of them been smart when it came to each other?

Every beat of his heart makes her tremble, and she can feel the steady rise and fall of his breaths. Alive, real, _here._ She pulls her fingers in, her nails scratching, her head tilting in consideration, and he hisses. She draws her nails across to his nipple, and he lets out a shuddering groan. She glances down between them; where he had before been uninterested, even through the shower, he’s fully hard. He follows her gaze but doesn’t comment. He still hadn’t let go of her wrist, but she finds it steadies her when everything else seems so uncertain.

She lets her hand slip lower and realizes she won’t be able to avoid the cuts that still lie raised and stark from his otherwise smooth skin. In her indecisiveness, the edge of her thumb brushes one of the lacerations, and he huffs out a breath. She flinches away, but he finally moves, stepping forward to press against her hand, encouragement shining through his conflicted expression. She traces the cuts one by one while he loses control of his breathing entirely, his free hand gripping the edge of the counter to keep him up.

She crowds him further against the counter and drags her fingernails back up his chest, bold with the wrecked look on his face. When she skims up his throat this time, he merely tightens his hold on her wrist ever so slightly. She sighs and leans into him, smoothing out the tension in his jaw before tracing his lips. He hums, letting her slip her fingertips into his mouth. She presses past his teeth, letting his tongue lave her fingers. When she withdraws, she reaches down and unceremoniously wraps her hand around his cock.

He drops her wrist and grabs the counter with both hands, panting through clenched teeth. She is not slow or elegant or measured, dragging his foreskin down to collect the slickness at his head, jerking him hard until he chokes on his breaths. When he starts to moan, she pulls away, taking his hand with her clean one and leading him back to the shower. He goes willingly, eyes slipping closed as she presses him against the tiles and starts up a rough rhythm. Even if everything will shatter again, even if he leaves again, this she can do. This she will make sure he doesn’t forget. _This_ she will not let be erased.

Her other hand isn’t idle, tweaking his nipples, gliding lightly over his wounds, scratching his hip, cupping his balls. His moans turn to words—curses and praise in languages she doesn’t understand, and, between blowing out breaths, her name. His hips jerk into her motion, and she adds a twist that makes him shout. An idle thought occurs to her that her neighbors might hear, but in this moment she couldn’t care less.

The room is quiet except for his tangled speech and the visceral sounds of her strokes. She lets her forehead fall against his chest as she leans further into him, tightening her grip. He whines high in his throat, the sound echoing in her chest and down between her legs. The cool air of the room caresses her where she’s already wet, and she shivers with it.

He grits his teeth, one of his hands tightening into a fist, and smacks the wall behind him, cracking a tile. His fingers creep up to scramble over the back of the hand on his cock, closing around her wrist with none of the strength of his earlier grip.

“I’m... I’m going to…” He groans with such desperate urgency that she wonders how long it’s been since he was touched with anything resembling tenderness.

“That’s okay,” she whispers, leaning up to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat, their first, she realizes, since before the shower. Since she heard a rustle behind her bedroom door—he never had gotten in the habit of knocking—and he staggered through it blindly.

This still feels nothing like a dream, and she’s glad for it.

Her wrist is beginning to ache from the angle, but she grits her teeth and speeds her strokes, bracing her other hand on his shoulder, encouraging him to grind forward. He lets out a wordless shout and gives in to the pleasure, eyes flying open to meet her gaze as he comes hard against the curve of her belly. As he throbs and pulses in her grip, he moans so long and low her toes curl reflexively against cold porcelain, and her skin prickles with sensation.

They stare at each other as he softens in her grasp and come cools slowly, dripping to her hip. As he recovers, awkwardness again takes over. She should turn the shower back on, even if it is still cold, and clean herself off. Return to the ritual of avoiding eye contact as passion once again dies. Instead, she lets him go and idly slides her fingertips through the mess. It doesn’t smell anything like sulfur now.

“I dreamt of you,” he breathes. “Every time my eyes closed.” It sounds almost like a recrimination.

“I’m sorry,” she says, voice hoarse. She doesn’t know what else to say, but he shakes his head and runs a hand through his sweaty hair. It hadn’t been styled when he’d arrived, and it sticks up in a dozen random directions. She might have laughed before, but now she doesn’t know how to react.

She swallows hard. “H-how long can you stay?”

His eyes betray that she was right to worry before he manages to speak. “I don’t know,” he says softly. He at least does her the courtesy of not turning away, though he seems to pull into himself and away from her.

“That’s not good enough,” she says, suddenly angry, or maybe it’s a long time coming. Maybe that anger is why she shoved him against the wall of her shower and took his cock in her hand—anger at the universe for its callousness, anger she hoped to baptize in the waters of desire. She’s beginning to understand why he lived his life in one night stands and trysts. “A week? A month? A _year?”_ Her voice rises, and she chokes out, “A day?”

His jaw clenches, and he hisses, “Closer to a day than a week.”

The air seems to leave the room entirely, leaving her gasping for breath. She knew. Even when she didn’t know, she _knew,_ but it doesn’t help. She’s falling again, but this time it doesn’t feel like an acceptable sacrifice. He closes his hand around her wrist, and she manages to catch her breath. He brushes her hair from her face with a tenderness that makes her heart clench, but his hands on her remind her of what her body wanted, of what she truly desires, even if it may all be gone again in the morning.

Her fingertips are still sticky, and she brings them slowly to her lips, as if this is some sort of ritual in one of those many books she read while he was gone. Salt and _him_ spread over her tongue, and though she wants to close her eyes, she keeps them open. She has to remember this as much as she has to remember the wrecked way he moaned when he came, the joy in his laughter, the sparkle in his eyes when he plays piano, the small, uncertain smile he only grants her. Memory is all she will have. Him, here, _now,_ is all she does have.

Whatever else he was going to say dies on his lips, and he instead drags her forward, pressing their bodies together, kissing his own taste out of her mouth. He licks over her teeth, sucks on her tongue, and switches their positions so she’s the one against the shower wall. The broken piece of tile is loosened by their movements and clatters to the floor. Neither of them pay it any mind. He reaches over and pulls the tap on, lukewarm water spraying over them.

This is not her fantasy. The water is too cold, her position too precarious. She’s sticky and a little sore, and her brain is too swamped in fear and anger and impotence for there to be anything pure in her joy. But he’s kissing her neck, pressing his fingers between her legs, and it’s so much better than anything she could have imagined. He sucks a bruise into her skin, and she cries out. It’ll be a bitch to cover later, but she doesn’t care. She doesn't care about anything besides the thumb on her clit, the fingers delving inside—too fast but not nearly fast enough. Three slide in, pulling her wide, and she groans into his shoulder.

He slings her leg over his hip to improve the angle, and she grinds against his fingers. None of the grief and terror and rage have diminished her sensitivity, and she keens, already at the edge, desperate for release. He thrusts faster, deep enough to skim her cervix, and she grabs his wrist, encouraging his movements, tangles the fingers of her other hand in his hair to steady herself. She’s so close, so close, _so close,_ and she’s plummeting, vision whiting out, the shower spray drowning out every other sound.

But he doesn’t stop, his thumb brutal on her clit, his motions shallowerer, now, but with a flick up toward her g-spot on every inward thrust even as she continues to tighten and release around his fingers. His lips trail from her neck to her breasts, biting her nipples, sucking bruises into the undersides. She’s making a low, involuntary sound—a continuous whine that grows louder as he drags her back to the edge, as if he could mete out a lifetime of pleasure in the space of five minutes.

He falls to his knees, and she hears his grunt of pain before his lips fasten around her clit, and she loses all sense of where she is, knowing nothing but the thrust and the suction and the hair in her tightly clenched fist. Another orgasm threatens, but he pulls her from the verge only to drive her higher with rapid flicks of his tongue. He repeats the process, fingers twisting and pressing deeper until she clenches, and he backs away, the bridge of his nose maintaining pressure on her clit while his tongue laps at her wetness. Her free hand grasps her breast, pinching at her nipple when he again sucks her clit into his hot mouth, fingers returning to slide deep. He crooks them, and her hips buck. He does it again and again and again, and she crests the wave for the third time, shouting nonsense into empty air.

“Lucifer,” she pants, unable to find anything but his name. “Lucifer, Lucifer, _Luci—”_

Lightning arcs, thunder rumbles through her veins, and she comes back to reality to find herself wrapped in his arms, shaking.

“H...holy shit,” she whispers before stretching out a crick in her neck. The water’s turned cold again, but she’s so superheated, it’s almost a relief. He’s kissing her neck, flicking his tongue against the bruise he left to make her shiver harder. She feels like she could sleep for a week, but she can’t. She _can’t,_ because he has to leave soon and… 

He rolls his hips with a desperate moan, and the head of his cock presses against her still throbbing clit. She hisses in a breath but grinds against him, sensitivity be damned. _Not human, not human, not human,_ rockets through her mind at his sudden readiness, but she doesn’t care. She wants Hell and Heaven and all the pain and cruelty and glory and pleasure in between, even if it kills her. She wants all of _him,_ even if this is the only night she can have. Even if she wakes up alone in a cold bed, nothing can take this away from her.

She cants her hips and clings to him, not having the energy to do anything else. But he doesn’t seem to mind at all, lifting her easily until he can slide comfortably inside. He tries to give her a moment to adjust, but she doesn’t need it, doesn’t want it, and she reaches back to drag her fingernails over the swell of his ass. He moans and thrusts abruptly, cutting off her breathing for a moment before she recovers. She sighs, wraps her arms around his neck, and gives in to his rhythm.

He thrusts hard, one arm holding her up, the other brushing hair from her face, tracing her lips as she pants, trailing down to cup her breasts. They ache, but he soothes them, even as he speeds his strokes. Like before, his eyes are wide open, gaze flicking between the rocking motion of her breasts with his thrusts and her face. She works up the energy to lean forward and take his bottom lip between her teeth, and the change in angle makes her gasp. His cock skims her g-spot over and over, and she clenches around him, feeling herself begin to rise.

He kisses her, cupping her cheek, and slows. They grind together with every thrust until kisses turn to breathing into each other’s mouths. There are so many things she wants to tell him but doesn’t know how to, so many things she wants to say knowing they don’t have time. But maybe somewhere between their breaths, between the rocking of his hips and her fingers slipping down to rub against her clit, between his hoarse groans and her helpless whine, maybe he understands.

His rhythm grows sharp and quick, and he pulses within her, and she knows he’s close. With her free hand, she traces along the already-fading scars on his stomach, and he cries out, pulling her from the wall to hold her upright, out of the cold shower spray. His hips snap into her faster and faster, and she wraps her arms around his neck, tightening around him.

“Chloe,” he whispers, the softness of his tone at odds with his motions, but isn’t that who he is? A walking contradiction? The devil and an angel, the tempter and the tempted, a stranger and the man she loves. She trips over the edge again, pleasure thrumming through her until she sags against his chest, limbs heavy.

He groans and pulls out, spending up over her stomach. She clenches around nothing, acutely sensitive as he carries her under the icy spray to clean them both as quickly as possible. The heat of him washes away with his emissions, and he knocks the tap off with an elbow before stepping out onto the mat and grabbing a towel.

He dries them quickly and efficiently, though he’s blessedly careful where she’s sore, and carries her into the bedroom. She shivers. He lays her on the bed, and she grabs at the covers, pulling them up to her chin. Her hair didn’t get that wet, thankfully, but it still hangs, brown and limp, around her face. He stands by the side of the bed, and she blinks at him, confused for a moment before she realizes he’s waiting for permission. A dagger of ice slips between her ribs, but she shoves the ache down and parts the comforter, patting the mattress next to her. There will be time enough for pain later

He joins her, slipping under the blanket. She finds the few inches he leaves between them intolerable and presses against him. He tenses for a brief moment before sliding his arm around her shoulders. Careful to avoid his wounds, she seeks his hand and buries her face into his chest. He smells like her body wash and the fabric softener she uses on her towels, and something between a moan and a sob catches in her throat. She presses a kiss to his palm before entwining their fingers and takes the first deep breath she’s managed since he showed up. Since he left. His lips trail over her hair, and she listens to his heartbeat, slow and steady.

Words hang in the air, but there’s no space between their bodies for them to slip. They can wait, even if there’s so little time left already. But this—the way his breath hitches when she slides her leg between his, the shifting of his hips as he settles onto the mattress, the soft melody he hums as he runs his fingers through her hair—this can’t wait. Soon, this quiet will be shattered for them, faithlessness again heady in her mouth. Soon, they will be cast from paradise, the knowledge of good and evil heavy in their hearts. No going back. Soon, the memories will be all she has left.

But for now, they will live in paradise, and they will not be afraid.


End file.
